


Times Like This

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester Fluff, Dean Winchester and Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Reader, Female Reader angst, Female Reader fluff, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader Request - Can you do a one shot where reader and Dean’s relationship is centered on touch?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Like This

There were times where you couldn’t get Dean to shut up, no matter how hard you tried. He would chatter almost as fast as a teenage girl excited about prom. You’d roll your eyes and go along with it, because that was the only thing to do. You could tease him, poke him in the arm, or swat him in the back of the head until your hand hurt, but it was best to just let him get it out of his system. And then there were times that he said little to nothing at all. There were times that his touch spoke louder than his words ever could. 

* * *

It was raining the first time Dean held your hand. It was barely sprinkling, really. Adding a little bite of fall chill to the air enough to color your breath as you walked back to the motel. At first, it felt like it came out of nowhere, his hand grabbing yours, threading your fingers together. But when his thumb swept over the pulse point in your wrist, it hit you how many signs there had been leading up to this. 

All those times you swore he was watching you from the corner of his eye, the way his voice took on a certain edge when you stood up to him, or how his nostrils flared when you came out of the bathroom after a long, hot shower. 

When you squeezed his hand instead of pulling away, he let out a chuckle, and slowed his stride, making sure the short walk took as long as possible without raising suspicion from his little brother. 

* * *

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, hip propped against the rear fender of the Impala, worrying about a particular green eyed hunter. It could have been five minutes or five hours. All you know is that just when your feet started to go numb, the familiar weight of his hand was on the small of your back. As if on auto-pilot, you turned into him, and wrapped your arms around him. The way he sighed into your neck let you know how bad of a night it had been, that he wasn’t up for talking about it, and that was ok.

His jacket smelled like earth and fire, blood and silver. It was a smell that might turn most people’s stomachs, but you weren’t like most people. It was a smell that seeped into his very pores, mingling with his soap and sweat, creating an almost intoxicating mixture.

The longer you held one another, the looser the knot in your stomach became. Every time Dean went out, you couldn’t help but think that you might not see him again. It was a very valid concern, given the Winchester’s track record, but, for tonight at least, he had ganked another monster, and lived to tell the tale. 

* * *

Sam was driving, giving his older brother a chance to get some shut eye. You had been fully prepared to give up the backseat so he could stretch out as much as he wanted, but he just shook his head, and opened his arms. With your legs draped over his, you curled into his side, your head on his shoulder, and his fingers in your hair. He was dropping kisses onto the top of your head while you traced the line of his jaw with the back of your hand. One scarred knuckle was under your chin, tipping your head back. He brushed his nose against yours before kissing you.

* * *

Big Bang Theory wasn’t Dean’s favorite show, nor was it yours, but it was the only thing on this late at night that didn’t bore you to death. It was another night where he couldn’t sleep, and if he couldn’t sleep, then neither could you. Sharing a pillow and a freshly washed blanket, Dean draped an arm over your waist after you settled in. With your body fitting into every dip and curve of his, you flipped the TV on.

It didn’t take Dean long to fall asleep. Before the opening credits had finished, his breath blew low and steady against the back of your neck. Even in his sleep, Dean craved contact with you. His bow legs tangled with yours, an arm under your neck, elbow crooked so he could feel your hair, the other hand tucked under your shirt, and pressed against your stomach. Every so often, his fingers would twitch, but you had learned long ago to stomp down your ticklish giggles. 

* * *

Sitting around a campfire should be calming and your teeth shouldn’t be chattering, right? That might be the case if it wasn’t the end of November, in Colorado, and you weren’t hunting a werewolf. But here you were, sitting as close to the fire as possible without catching on fire yourself. Your hands shook as you held them next to the bright orange flames. If Dean didn’t come back with more wood soon… you started to fear the worst.

Your head bobbed as something heavy fell around your shoulders, and try as you might, you couldn’t completely open your eyes. Your body shifted as Dean lifted you off the ground after dumping a bucket of snow on the fire, and began the long walk back to the Impala. With an arm under your knees and at the small of your back, you looped your arms around his neck, murmuring something even you couldn’t comprehend.

His lips were warm against your forehead as he walked. Muscles that came as a reward of working on and rebuilding the Impala, digging up numerous graves, fighting off and ganking more monsters than any hunter you’d heard of, flexed as he walked, carrying you as if you weighed nothing, as if his bare arms weren’t cold in the frigid temperature.

The Impala sputtered only slightly before her engine fired to life. It took a handful of minutes before the car was warm enough to turn the heat on, and in that time, Dean grabbed your hands in his, blowing into them before rubbing them back and forth. The pair of you shivered, chattering teeth filled the car.

Even after it was toasty warm and you had discarded Dean’s jacket, you were nestled against his side, his arm draped over your shoulder, fingers threaded with yours. His other hand hung loosely on the bottom of the steering wheel, thumb tapping along with the drum solo of some classic rock song pouring from the speakers.

It was times like this that words weren’t needed.


End file.
